


of the steppe

by haetae



Series: wanderer from the steppe [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Azim Steppe Shenanigans, Character Study, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-05 01:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12180657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haetae/pseuds/haetae
Summary: collection of drabbles (some connected, some not) about a qestiri warrior of light who's trying to survive.





	1. names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> where he shares his real name with minfilia.

Masaki is but a name mistakenly given to him when he attempted spell out his name in clumsy letters. (But he doesn’t hold it against Momodi, far from it. In fact, he finds the whole thing amusing.)

His true name is Mongke. But he does not give this name out so easily—at least, not to strangers and outsiders who have no place in his life.

Minfilia is an exception.

“Mongke,” she repeats softly. The Au Ra in question nods. The Antecedent furrows her brow as she tests the name again slowly, carefully. “If that is your true name, then how is it that you are called Masaki?”

It is then that Masaki flashes a knowing grin. It takes a second for the pieces to click and Minfilia laughs. The sound is bell-like, airy, and playful.

“Even the Warrior of Light is prone to mischief. Then you would have me keep this a secret?”

Masaki nods and chuckles despite himself. It feels like being a child again—sharing funny secrets and giggling over them. There weren’t many opportunities like these in the clan—after all, all words are lies. These words, however, at least have a grain of truth to them. Minfilia’s eyes sparkle with amusement as she winks at him and seals the promise between them with a finger over her lips.

They straighten themselves when Alphinaud walks into the room about to report on the Crystal Braves’ movement. He raises an eyebrow when he notices something off with the Warrior of Light and the Antecedent. Minfilia looks as if she’s been told a hilarious joke only understood between close friends. Masaki, on the other hand, smiles innocuously at Alphinaud. The elezen narrows his eyes for a moment before turning to Minfilia and giving his report.

As he bids both farewell, they snicker over something and send him off. Masaki joins Alphinaud, much to the latter’s confusion, with the same smile on the Warrior's face (now looking slightly suspicious).

“Was there something amusing about what I said, Masaki?” Alphinaud begins with a tone akin to a huffy scholar wanting to know more about who’s been laughing at him behind his back.

Masaki laughs and shakes his head.


	2. in memoriam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> to lose something after a lifetime away from home killed him all over again

Ever since he arrived to the Reunion, he’s been searching high and low for his parents. Surely they couldn’t have left? His mother is probably out hunting again while his father is knee-deep in responsibilities, right?

The other Qestiri aren’t about to show him where his father is for some reason but they reluctantly point out the lone hut separate from the rest of the Reunion. That’s strange—why would his mother be all the way out here? (Unless they pointed him to the shaman again…) His hair stands on end as he makes his way towards the hut, half-expecting a slap from his mother upon seeing his face again.

… Would his mother want to see him again, after he left so suddenly? His stomach churns anxiously as he parts the tent flap, barely catching the wafting scent of food.

When he steps inside the tent fully, his breath catches in his throat. His mother’s back is turned to him while she cooks stew over the central fire pit. Her strong silhouette is still the same, but her hair has grayed and there’s a slump to her shoulders. Guilt and shame twists his heart. 

Mongke clears his throat.

His mother starts before whipping around, wielding a menacing ladle, until she recognizes him. The ladle slips from her suddenly lax grip as she stands up. He freezes, throat quivering in anxiety, and braces himself as she marches up to him, eyes blazing in fury.

He does not expect her to pull him into a tight hug, for her frame to shake with quiet sobs.

Suddenly that brings tears to his eyes and he starts crying too.

At that, his mother pulls back and glares at him before she dissolves into tears again. His heart catches in his throat and he wipes her tears away. What has happened?

She pulls him then, out of the yurt and towards somewhere. His stomach clenches uneasily. Where is she taking him?

His mother leads him to a mound piled with stones—a grave.

He turns frightened eyes to her.  _Ana_  doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Your  _ata_.” She says.

The world grinds to a halt. His heart stops beating for a few moments. Mongke tries speaking, but his throat fail him, only managing to get out choked noises of grief.  _Ata is dead?_

After losing so many allies and friends, he’s lost his father too? How many more losses must he suffer through? How many more must he grieve for?

He collapses onto his knees, pathetic sobs weakening him further. Mongke curls into himself, presses his palms to his eyes, as he weeps bitterly, openly.

His mother’s eyes soften as she kneels down beside him, rubbing her son’s back. “Mongke.”

 “ _Ana,_ ” he whispers brokenly, looking up from his hands to meet his mother’s eyes. He searches her eyes, trying to glean the truth from them.

He doesn’t want to believe it. He  _doesn’t_. And yet, she confirms the news with a solemn bow of her head. His heart sinks so low he isn’t sure if he can retrieve it.

A pained noise from deep within bursts out of his chest. He is two years too late to say sorry, to say goodbye to  _ata_. Mongke sobs, feeling as though the pieces of himself that shattered with each death are slowly falling apart all over again. His mother holds him close as she sheds tears of her own.

It is all they can do, is just hold on to each other.

* * *

Once, when Mongke was younger, he used to put flowers in his father’s hair much to his father’s chagrin. Despite the other Qestiri laughing at their proud chief guard wearing a clumsy wreath of marigolds and dandelions, Mongke’s father never took them off. Out of love and pride for his child, no doubt.

But now he’s gone. No more flowers to embarrass and furnish him with. No more fathers waiting to welcome back their sons.

He twists a handful of grass blades in clenched hands.

Maybe if he’d just come back sooner, leave the realm’s fate to a much more competent adventurer, then he’d be home and his father would still be alive. Then he wouldn’t have so many graves to visit.

A fresh wave of tears overcomes him. He lowers his head.

“ _Ata_ ,” he murmurs to his father’s grave, “I’m home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick translation note: ana is mongolian for mother or mama; ata is father or papa. i could be wrong though so feel free to give me a heads up if i've made a mistranslation error!


	3. internal struggle

Here is the Sea of Blades, where the grass is so sharp one might find their ankles and legs bleeding after crossing those plains.

Here is the holy Azim Khaat. Only the worthy and the brave may bathe in its waters and one must always give thanks to the Dawn Father for its everlasting flow.

This is the Dawn Throne, home of the proud Oronir. They are a proud people who rule the Steppe, for they are Azim’s children. Their most Radiant Brother guides them with his strength and wisdom—even in his fervent search for his moonlight half. 

This is the Dusk Throne. She is buried ‘neath the dunes, her eyes still watching over her children. There is a promise of vengeance lingering in her stony visage. Watch for her coming storm, for she is Nhaama the Dusk Mother.

There, the Reunion—your home.

The one you left.

Honesty and loyalty is everything to the Qestir tribe. Why did you leave the way you did, sneaking off in the middle of the night? Why did you leave the way you did, opening your mouth to scream lies at the revered elders?

Because you were angry. Because a child died and you were helpless to do anything about it.

Beings live and die all the time on the Steppe. It is a cruel, unforgiving place where even breathing is a fight to survive. So why is it, then, that you did everything against your tribe’s teachings over this sickly child’s passing?

Because your heart is uncontrollable. Your heart is a monster that lashes out and attaches itself to those who cannot last forever. Nothing lasts forever, you know this.

So why is it, then, do you keep acting as if everything lasts forever?

You fool. You utter fool. Have you learned nothing from your time with the shaman?

You give away your heart so easily, so readily. Is it truly any surprise that it almost always comes back in tatters, in pieces, in shards? How do you call yourself a warrior of the Steppe when you cannot even control your own tears? How do you call yourself a Warrior of Light when you cannot even save your friends?

In spite of this, you will piece yourself back together again. The weight of the world bears heavily on your shoulders. It will not do if you, a Warrior of Light, cannot continue. So you must fight against the hissing voice in the back of your head, against memories of the home that you left behind. That’s all this is, isn’t it? The constant fighting, losing, winning—it’s all just one big cycle.

This, you figure, is what it means to be a person. To pick yourself back up after the raging storms and rebuild, move on.

* * *

Mongke wakes up to catch the light of the dawn rising over the mountains. The night and stars fade from the skies as a pink and pale blue haze make way for the sun’s rays to peek out over the craggy silhouette.

He blinks the sleep from his eyes and stares at the beginnings of a new day.

He pushes himself to his feet.

He gets up.


	4. saaral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reunited with an old friend.

He’s made it through all of trials of Bardam’s Mettle, save for this last one—

Mongke blinks. Then he grins widely and throws his arms wide open.

The yol pauses in the middle of its screeching to quirk its head curiously at this au ra. It creeps towards him and pecks at his hair, earning a laugh from Mongke, then screeches again—this time in joy. It recognizes him from all those years ago! He tugs the bird’s head close to press his forehead against the top of its head, scritching the back of its skull and cooing at it as it basks under his affections.

Then the yol draws back with a mighty yell and spreads its enormous wings before Mongke. He copies it by puffing up his chest and appearing bigger than he is—before he throws himself at the bird and clings onto its neck. The au ra tries to wrangle the bird into a headlock, attempting to plant his feet on the ground to get an edge, only for the wily creature to slip out of his grip and snap at his clothes. He twirls out of the way before launching himself at the yol again.

It continues like this—with beast and man playing with each other with a strange ferocity. Mongke finally finds an opportunity to break this stalemate when the yol has its head dipped low for an incoming attack. He leaps, using the bird’s head as a leverage (much to its surprise and indignation), and lands on its back. The yol howls and tries to buck him off with a deadly swing of its wings. He presses close, clutching onto feathers for dear life, and yelps as the yol shoots upwards with a powerful gust.

He presses his knees close, securing a hold over the nook where the wings meet the bird’s body. Mongke wraps his arms around its neck as the bird swoops and dives at random intervals to shake him off. The constant drops has his stomach in knots, but his heart races from the  _thrill_. He can’t help but laugh, exhilarated.

The au ra is stubborn and clings tighter to the yol until it begins to tire. He can feel the bird beginning to slow and the wings flapping harder in exertion.

His muscles are screaming for relief by the time they both land on solid ground. He falls off rather than properly dismount with a groan and weak chuckle. The yol flops to the ground with a soft cry, also drained.

Mongke reaches out to the yol with a trembling, open hand. A long moment of silence passes between them.

Then the yol presses its beak into his palm.

He smiles warmly and rubs the yol’s beak fondly. It replies with a pleased squawk and nuzzles closer to his hand.

Mongke huffs out a warm chuckle.


	5. to show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as a youngling, he'd been sure of this. of himself. but not of how others would see him, especially of his own family.

Later, Mongke returns to the elder’s tent when the sun has long dipped below the horizon and her back is drenched in sweat and her limbs ache from hours of training.

Mongke hums her arrival and seats herself before the elder with a bowed head.

Her father’s silence gnaws at her insides but she holds fast. She allows herself to glance up when a warm hand rests on her head and fingers cup her shorn locks. Mongke can't help but grin slightly. Ata’s face is the epitome of astonishment.

Then Mongke shifts to copy ata’s sitting position.

Mongke thumps his bound chest two times and bows low enough that his forehead and the tips of his horns press against the ground, hands splayed on either side of his head. There are only a rare few instances he’d ever bow like this. 

Ata grabs one of Mongke’s horns and yanks his head up to face ata directly, much to the younger’s shock. He shakes Mongke’s head slightly by the horn and stares Mongke down—a silent demand for answers. Mongke evenly stares back and brings his hands up to press the tips of his fingers together and pull his hands apart in a single motion.  _A long time_ , he means.

His jaw drops as he lets go of Mongke's horn. Mongke rubs the spot his father grabbed him and winces at the tenderness. But Mongke cannot blame ata for his reaction—after all, it's not everyday that one’s daughter turns out to be a boy. Mongke can only hope that ata will still accept him as a son.

Mongke is dragged out of his darkening thoughts by ata’s grunt. He sits at attention, his head bowed.

Then his father yanks him into a clumsy hug. Mongke freezes up in shock. When reality finally processes in his mind, he returns the hug with fierce hug of his own. Ata is the first pull away. He cups Mongke’s face and kisses his forehead. With his thumbs, he wipes away relieved tears trickling down Mongke’s cheeks.

All words are lies, but there is truth in the way ata calls Mongke “ _koghun_ ”. It is a secret Mongke will take to his grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick translation:
> 
> koghun is "son"  
> ata is "father"
> 
> again please feel free to correct me if i'm wrong!

**Author's Note:**

> i'm trying to further develop my wol oc outside of rp. that, and practice writing mute characters, especially since the qestir tribe have very cool lore tidbits that i wanna explore.
> 
> this one i wrote while putting off my work because i wanted to write about mongke's struggle with his depression (among other things)


End file.
